Where Light Cannot Shine
by water4willows
Summary: In which our intrepid DC Morse has gone missing, and Fred Thursday will stop at nothing to find him and bring him home. Warnings for the aftermath of torture, blood, and gore. Written for the Whump Fic Exchange over on Tumblr. Find me there @the-wandering-whumper


_A gift for WhumpyWumpas for the Tumblr Whump Fic Exchange. I hope you enjoy it, love. I am not British, and this story is based off a British show. I apologize for how "American" it may sound. I tried my best :)_

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 **Where Light Cannot Shine**

Detective Inspector Morse had been missing for two whole days when their first real lead came through. The caller had wished to remain anonymous, and the only information they were willing to give was that they had seen a large chap dragging another, slimmer man fitting Morse's description into an abandoned building over in Camden Lane. It was a seedier part of town so to anyone else the trip might have seemed arbitrary, but to Inspector Fred Thursday, it was anything but. The location was just four blocks away from where his partner had last been seen, and the first real lead they'd had in days.

It had been raining for the past several days and the narrow Oxford streets were wet and treacherous. Still, Fred Thursday took them faster than he ever had before, much to the horror of Chief Superintendent Bright, who sat in the passenger seat beside him (where Morse should have been sitting, he thought angrily) trying desperately to appear unfazed by his subordinate's complete lack of caution on the road.

"Really, Thursday," the man muttered when Fred took the next turn on two wheels. "Killing us is not going to do Morse any favors." But Thursday barely registered the words. He brought the car to a screeching halt before an abandoned building and was up and out of the vehicle nearly before it had come to a stop. The rain had let up ever so slightly, but the car park was still a veritable lake. Huge puddles of dirty grey water reflected the ominous sky and sent a shiver through Thursday's body. Could Morse really be in there? He figured there was only one way to find out.

"Thursday!" Bright called after him as he took off towards the entrance of the building. "We really must wait for the others!" But Thursday was having none of that. For two whole days he'd been imagining the worst for Morse, pacing the halls of his precinct and looking anywhere but at the board where all the gruesome details of their latest inquiry were on full display for all to see. It was a tough case, even for the more seasoned men on his staff. He never should have let Morse go off alone. This was all his fault, so there would be no waiting for back up for Thursday.

"Be smart about this, man!" Bright tried again, but his voice was lost as Thursday ducked into the entrance of the crumbling building.

Someone had been murdering people in this area of town. There were three bodies found so far, all young lads, no family to speak of, tall and lanky and fair of hair. He'd warned Morse the entire time to be careful, but when had his young counterpart ever taken his advice? Morse had gone off alone, as he was wont to do, not even caring that he might be walking into a trap, and no one had seen the Detective Constable since. Thursday had let it happen and now the only thing that mattered was getting Morse back.

Thursday paused in the foyer of the building and shook out his coat. Rain had dampened his shoulders, but he had no time to worry about that. He fished a small torch out from one of his pockets and swung its dim beam around the space. Some light came in from the windows behind him, but with Oxford under a perpetual threat of rain, the grey light streaming in through the grimy window panes was no help at all. And yet, he could still make out some of the exquisite workmanship surrounding him.

The building was old. In another life, it must have been very grand indeed. Now it sat mouldering and forgotten, rot and neglect slowly cannibalizing it from the inside, out. The only furniture in the foyer was a disintegrating reception desk off to his left and a few moth-eaten plush benches, those poufy, round pink monstrosities that had been so popular for a time. The entire place reeked of decay and holes in the ceiling dripped rainwater down around him. A small forest of plants had sprouted along one far wall near a broken window and the neighborhood boys had covered nearly every available surface with spray-painted graffiti. He discovered several vulgar words before his torch beam finally found what he was looking for.

All the bodies discovered so far had been found in cellars. Their perpetrator had hidden them all so well that the rest might never be found. The entrance to this particular building's cellar was right behind the crumbling frame of the reception desk, marked by a small red and white sign proclaiming it to be an area for 'Staff Only'. Thursday made his way over to it and when he pulled back the creaking door, revealed a set of well-worn stairs disappearing into the darkness of the hotel's forgotten lower levels.

Thursday paused for a moment, contemplating what his next step should be. The old hotel was massive, taking up most of an entire city block. There was no telling could be down there waiting for him and he was unarmed, save for the torch in his hand and a quickly weakening resolve. The blackness below was swallowing up everything beyond the first few steps of the staircase, but he knew there was no turning back now. He owed that much to Morse at least.

Pulling in a steadying breath, Thursday clicked off his torch and stowed it back in the pocket of his trenchcoat. If he was going down there, then he was going to have to do it stealthily, lest he alert whomever was holding Morse to his presence. Surprise, he figured, would be key, so he practically held his breath as he carefully stepped out onto the first riser and grasped a rickety handrail.

God, what was he thinking? Going in unarmed like this and without backup? This was not the way he normally handled things. Thursday glanced back over his shoulder, trying to gauge whether or not anyone else had arrived yet, but the carpark was not visible from where he stood. No, he was alone, and was Morse's only hope. Thursday gripped the handrail in a white knuckled hold and tried to ignore the fact that he was suddenly terrified. Should he hold back? Wait for backup? Be smart about this? That was more his way then plunging headlong into a dark abyss that may or may not be holding his young friend. And yet… this was _Morse_ they were talking about. His gangly, too intelligent for his own good, comrade at arms who was right now in the hands of a madman. All Thursday could think about were the pictures of corpses that had been found, their mutilated faces staring up at him from the glassy surfaces of the crime scene photos. Those unseeing eyes and bloated flesh... If there was any chance that same thing was happening to Morse at this very moment, then there was nothing for it. He had no choice but to keep going.

Thursday's heart was beating heavily in his ears as he took his first tentative steps downward. Behind him thunder rumbled and rain lashed against the windows in renewed effort to drown the city and cut off his light. He thought he could hear the faint sound of sirens approaching in the distance, but couldn't be sure over the clamor. Below him, strange noises rose up from out of the blackness, threatening to drain his resolve with each skitter and screech.

The stone walls on either side of the staircase were damp and covered in slime. Still, he kept one hand planted firmly on the rail while he used the other to steady himself. The feel of the stone beneath his hands grounded him, somehow. It anchored him in place so that the sea of black surrounding him was unable to swallow him whole. It made no sense, he knew, but it still felt as though, should the darkness be allowed to carry him away, that he would never, ever be able to escape it again. This thought consumed him so completely that he nearly stumbled when the wall suddenly disappeared from under his fingers and his feet left the soft, springy wood of the stairs to meet cold, unyielding stone. He'd reached the bottom, he realized stupidly. He was alive and okay and was in no danger of disappearing at all.

The light from the open doorway somewhere above him didn't reach down here. He missed his torch, but there was no way he could risk switching it on now. Instead, he stood at the bottom of the stairs for a quiet moment just listening to the space around him and giving his eyes time to adjust.

The one good thing about complete darkness was that it made any light in the cellar almost immediately visible. Somewhere far off, glinting around the twisted remains of old hotel furniture, Thursday could see flickering firelight. Candles, he figured, and began picking his way carefully around the detritus littering the floor to check it out.

It was as if the entire hotel had been emptied and anything not taken by the auctioneers had been dumped down into the cellar. There were bed frames and broken dressing tables. Bits of broken mirror glass crunched beneath his feet and he cringed at the amount of noise he was making. He had to be careful. Who knew what this madman was capable of? Soon the place would be swarming with uniformed officers, but until such time, Thursday had to err on the side of caution. He discarded his coat on a nearby pile of broken wood, brandishing his dark torch like a weapon before moving on. It would hardly save his life, but at least it was better than nothing.

The candlelight Thursday had seen was coming from a haphazardly-constructed side room, pieced together from broken bits of furniture and metal mattress springs. It reminded him of a nest of sorts and he was so busy searching it for a way in that he'd forgotten to watch where he was walking. Without warning, his leg caught on something sharp. The fabric of his trouser leg snagged and then tore as a piece of metal pierced his skin. He tried not to cry out as a pile of debris to his right began shifting. He put his hands out to try and stabilize it, but it was no use. The pile began to tilt and shapeless items began crashing down around him, creating such a ruckus it finally caught the attention of whomever was currently taking up residence in the candlelit room. Thursday limped out of sight as quickly as his wounded leg would allow. He pressed himself in behind some wooden pallets that had been propped up against a wall and prayed the larger man who had just emerged from the ramshackle space a few feet away from him and brandishing a knife would not spot him.

It took everything in Thursday not to leave his hiding place in that moment and tackle the man to the ground. The lunatic they had been searching tirelessly for for nearly two months was standing a mere couple metres away from Thursday, looking positively murderous. The man's eyes flashed, even against the backdrop of the dancing firelight, but that was not what had Thursday so upset. The knife his quarry held in one beefy hand was slowly dripping blood onto the floor from its tip. Thursday could see I clearly, crimson and back lit by flickering flame. _Morse's blood_ , he thought thickly, and that realization put even more momentum behind the indignant bellow slowly building up inside his lungs. Thursday was no spring chicken, but he wasn't about to let his young partner die at the hands of evil.

But Thursday couldn't charge in that moment. He had to be smart about this. Morse's life could very well depend on it, so he held back and pressed white knuckles into his lips to keep from screaming.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Thursday watched through the slats of his pallets as the murder simply stood there, silhouetted in flame with head tilted slightly to one side as if listening intently. Thursday's ankle throbbed mercilessly where he'd been cut and he could feel blood slowly trickling down his leg to soak into his trousers, but he didn't dare move. His hiding place was precarious at best. One step forward by the man with the glinting eyes, and it would be over. They would bury two policemen in the saturated Oxford ground. No, what he really needed was a distraction, something to draw the man away from the little walled-off room he was guarding so that Thursday could get in there and look for Morse. He searched the space around him frantically for anything that might help, but nothing presented itself. He was just about to try and make a run for it, when the first shout from above nearly startled him to death.

"Inspector Thursday?" Someone called from back the way he'd come. It was far off, but torch light cut through the darkness from the direction of the cellar stairs and Thursday nearly gave himself away in his relief. Boots pounded on the floorboards above his head. Sirens could be heard approaching now, but Thursday knew had to stay focused. What happened next all hinged on what their murderer decided to do. With the prospect of being caught, would he dash back into the side room to kill his final victim? Or, knowing the jig was up, would he give up and make a run for it? Thursday studied his quarry carefully through the slats of his pallet. Gone was the menacing figure who moments ago had seemed so imposing. In his place was an indecisive, nervous wretch who kept glancing back and forth between the room he'd just left and the approaching flashlight beams. The thug wiped his hands nervously against his trousers and left streaks of blood on the fabric.

"Come on, man." Thursday pleaded internally. He could try and use the element of surprise. Maybe if he pushed his pallets over and startled the man enough, he could get in few good blows with the business end of his torch before the brute even knew what hit him. But again, he was reminded of his age and the fact that he was no longer a spry young man. He was hardly ready for retirement, but he even he wasn't vain enough to assume he could take this man down in hand to hand combat. There was also the option of waiting for his reinforcements, but something told Thursday he needed to get to Morse as quickly as possible. That was what mattered most. Get to Morse. Make sure was safe. To hell with his own well-being.

Thursday backed himself in closer to the pallets shielding him as the man with the knife took a few uncertain steps forward. Someone yelled Thursday's name again and this time it was enough to set the quavering criminal down his chosen path. He turned around abruptly, disappearing into the darkness of the cellar and out of Thursday's sight. The aging detective finally let himself breathe freely. Fear had tightened his chest, making it difficult to draw a proper breath, but he forced his lungs to expand anyway. He extricated himself from his hiding place, ignoring his protesting leg, and made a beeline for the murderer's lair.

What he had thought was a makeshift structure, was in fact a roughly erected storage room constructed of rotting wooden boards. The broken furniture and hotel debris surrounding it had made it impossible to make out the structure hidden beneath. It had a plywood door secured in place by a padlock, which Thursday was easily able to tear away. Hardly daring to hope that the nightmare might soon be over (and equally terrified at what he might find inside, Thursday slipped into the storage room and let the crude door slam behind him.

It was the smell that assaulted him first, a metallic, iron twinge that stung his nose and immediately tried to bring up the meager contents of his stomach. A dozen or so candles burned brightly, illuminating a lone chair situated in the direct center of the room. Someone was sitting in it with head bent, bits of blood soaked rope encircling their hands and feet, securing the figure to the chair. Blond hair, matted and caked in gore, shone in the candle light.

"Morse?" Thursday whispered hoarsely. The figure shifted slightly but did not speak. Thursday made his way towards the chair cautiously, deliberately ignoring a cart laden with rusted medical instruments positioned only a few feet away. Most were dry, but some were still shiny with fresh blood.

"Morse?" He tried again, disgusted with how his voice cracked. This time the figure in the chair turned their head slightly and Thursday's world splintered. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was on his knees before the chair, tugging uselessly at blood soaked ropes that were too slippery to grasp with one hand and searching desperately for a pulse with the other.

"Morse, it's Thursday. Can you hear me?" The Detective Constable's eyes were both puffy and swollen shut, but a heartbeat thrummed away beneath his skin and he somehow managed to pry one eye open as cracked lips formed around Thursday's name.

"Well spotted," Thursday choked out on an aborted sob as he took in his partner's state. Morse was almost completely naked, save for a grimy pair of boxer shorts. Every other inch of his body was covered in cuts and livid bruises. Some of the lacerations were superficial and had already begun healing. Others were deep and it was obvious they had been bleeding for quite a while. The blood ran in rivers of red down Morse's pale skin and Thursday had to fight back against the urge to shudder.

"I've got you, Morse," the elder Inspector promised, cradling the less swollen side of Morse's face in his palm." "Just stay with me, alright? Help is on the way." Morse might have nodded, but Thursday missed it. The ropes binding the Detective Constable's hands and feet were expertly knotted, and so tight that the appendages were swollen and purple from lack of circulation. His fingers could not find purchase through all the blood oozing up from open wounds hidden beneath the rope's abrasive surface. God, the fight Morse must have put up to cause such wounds. The ropes had to come off, so Thursday fished into his pocket for the small knife he always kept there, and cursed when he realized he was no longer wearing his coat. He fumbled for one of the rusted out tools lying in the tray nearby and did not miss it when Morse flinched away from the sound of metal on metal.

"It's alright now, Morse," Thursday said. "I've got you. You're okay." He sawed carefully into the ropes, trying desperately not to cause his friend any more pain. The tool was crude but it did the trick, and soon he was through. The ropes had embedded themselves into the flesh of Morse's wrists and ankles, so Thursday dared not pull them away. Instead, he began rubbing at them gently, coaxing blood back into the abused limbs. When he moved to do the same with Morse's feet, the young man reached out and grabbed his shoulder.

"It's over," Thursday promised, covering Morse's shaking hand where it had fisted in his shirt. "He's gone and I'm going to get you out of here." Morse's one working eye was little more than a slit, but Thursday thought he saw comprehension there. Still, the young man's breaths were coming far too fast and the heartbeat that thrummed against Thursday's' fingers when he checked Morse's pulse again was all wrong. His friend was fading fast.

Thursday looked up into Morse's battered face. "Look, I've to go get help. They don't know where we are. I'm just going to run to the door. I promise I won't leave you here alone." The hand that had taken hold of Thursday's shirt tightened slightly. It broke his heart to leave his friend's side in this state, but what he was saying was true. It might take too long for someone to find them here if he didn't raise a ruckus and Thursday could tell Morse needed medical attention as soon as possible. He patted the hand refusing to let him go, and pried the blood caked fingers away from his shirt with tears in his eyes. The man had been through so much, and here Thursday was, torturing him further.

"I'm not leaving you," Thursday vowed, leaning in close to his friend when he finally got to his feet. He met Morse's gaze and realized the sheer terror behind it. He gripped Morse's bare shoulders gently as possible. "I've got you. You're safe now. I'm not going to let anything else happen to you." There was more to be said, and Thursday tried to put it there behind his eyes: the fact that he thought of Morse as a son, how he both cared for and respected the lad. Morse seemed to understand, but still looked terrified as Thursday pulled away.

Best treat it like you're pulling off a bandage, he figured, and tore himself away from Morse's side as he practically ran for the door, the cut on his leg all but forgotten. As soon as he threw it open, he immediately spied several of his men nearby.

"Oy! You there!" He called out and the two men came running as soon as they realized who it was. He recognized one of them immediately. "Remington," he barked, not caring what state he must look, "gather the lads. Morse is in here and fading fast. We need medical and to get him out of here as soon as possible."

"Yes, Sir!" Remington saluted, pulling his policeman's whistle from around his neck and signaling to the others for help. Thursday left the door open and immediately returned to Morse's side. The Detective Constable's eye was closed, and he was slumped over in his chair. One of the lads had followed him into the room and Thursday beckoned him over.

"Help me move him," he said and the young man came over immediately. If he was bothered by all the blood, he didn't show it, and Thursday made a note to himself to compliment the lad on his cool head once all this was over. The constable was certainly handling this better than Thursday was.

Careful of Morse's still bleeding injuries, the two men worked quickly to lower him to the ground. Someone produced a blanket from somewhere unknown and Thursday covered Morse's lower half with it, noticing how his friend had begun to shiver. One of his wounds was bleeding freely again, and Thursday clamped a hand over it. The movement earned him a moan from Morse, who lifted a hand to grab at Thursday's shirt front again. Morse's eye cracked open and Thursday smiled down at him before using his free hand to smooth a few blood stained locks away from his sweaty brow.

"Well, you helped crack the case, Morse," Thursday joked, unsure of what to do in the moment. The corner of Morse's mouth lifted in a slight smile. "Don't think this is going to earn you any points with me though, lad. You know I'm never letting you out of my sight again after this, right?" Morse shook his head, tears tracking from the corners of his eyes.

"Thursday…" the word was hardly more than a whisper, but it still managed to break him apart from the inside.

"None of that now," he hushed. "You just worry about getting better. We'll get you off to hospital soon enough and then you'll be right as rain before you know it." Morse closed his eyes and let out a shuddering sigh. His hand fell away from Thursday's shirt. The tremor shook his entire frame and Thursday wasn't entirely sure it wasn't a sob. He wanted so badly to gather the young man on the floor before him up in his arms, to assure him that everything would be okay, but knew he couldn't take his hand away from the wound he was covering. His other hand on Morse's cheek would have to suffice. It grew quiet in the little candle lit room, and when the detective did not open his eyes again, Thursday tapped the side of his face gently.

"Morse?" He called out, but Morse did not stir. " _Endeavour?_ " He tried again, and leaned down to press an ear to the man's chest. The slight rise and fall of his ribcage was undeniable and Thursday let out a relieved sigh. "Bloody hell."

"Alright, Inspector?" His constable asked, sounding scared.

"No," Thursday laughed, taking Morse's limp hand into his own again. "But I suspect it might be… eventually." The young constable looked down at him quizzically, but Thursday kept silent after that. The medical team arrived a few moments later with litter in hand and with some help from some of the younger lands, they managed to load Morse's unconscious form into it. Bright was waiting for them when they finally made it out of the room and Thursday hung back reluctantly to speak with his Chief Superintendent.

"Messy business, all that," his boss said, gesturing towards the disappearing litter. It was not lost on Thursday that he'd had this same conversation with his superior before. "How is he?"

"I suspect this one might be a little harder to come back from," Thursday replied solemnly, nodding over his shoulder to where several of his men had begun documenting the crime scene. Bright glanced over to the storage room and nodded.

"Best you be there when he wakes up, then. We'll need his statement on this one, especially with the dead body we have out back."

"Body?" Thursday questioned.

Bright nodded again. "Large man, early 30s, self-inflicted knife wound to the throat when some of the men cornered him. Never had a chance." Thursday said nothing, both relieved to hear the man had died, and irritated he hadn't been there to help him on his way.

"Sir…"

"Oh just go, Thursday," Bright interrupted him, clearly reading his mind. "Plenty of time for all that later. Go make sure our boy is safe." If Thursday hadn't known any better, he would have thought that was genuine affection coloring his superior's voice. Thursday nearly smiled.

"Yes, sir." He started to walk away.

"Oh and Thursday," Bright called to him one final time. Thursday turned, ready to put this accursed place in his rearview mirror but unwilling to pay a disservice to his superior officer. Bright tucked his hat beneath his arm and offered a tired smile. "Get that leg checked out, and keep us informed, won't you.'

"I will sir." And with a finger to the brim of his hat in salute, Thursday followed after the medical team.

FIN

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 _A/N: Thank you to the amazing LadyRiesling for beta'ing this. Girl, you keep me fabulous and for that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. 3 you!_

 _For anyone looking for news on my other pending stories, this is the first thing I have been able to write in over a year. I had some devastating tragedies in my life and am working through some emotional and physical issues. I cannot honestly say if I'll ever be able to give you a sequel to The Silent Language of Grief, but I will keep trying._

 _As always, if you like what you've read here, please consider leaving me a review. It takes moments and inspires me to keep writing. :)_


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